


The Adventure Of The Prince-Saint (The Addleton Tragedy Concerning The Ancient British Barrow)

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [60]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Christianity, F/M, Forgery, M/M, Paganism, Poisoning, Religion, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Another case with an element of the preternatural, and Sherlock solves two thefts in one – first a recent one and second, one from the thirteenth century!





	The Adventure Of The Prince-Saint (The Addleton Tragedy Concerning The Ancient British Barrow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

A number of the cases that my brother Sherlock investigated claimed to have something preternatural about them, although only in a few did that claim bear any examination. This however was one of them, when my brother solved a most mysterious death when an unseen killer struck in what had seemed to be impossible circumstances, and should have struck a second time yet did not. Most peculiar.

And to those who do not believe what they are about to read, may I point out that 'Jeremy' married the year after this story took place, quitted his village for London and subsequently became a brilliant scientist-mathematician who went on to revolutionize his field of study as well as fathering some fourteen children, twelve sons and two daughters. His sudden disappearance last year (1928) remains a mystery but his eldest son, who proudly bears his name and is continuing his father's great work, has most generously agreed to allow the publication of this story.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

The Addleton Tragedy ranks as one of those great unsolved mysteries which dominated the newspapers of the Nineties for a time before fading into obscurity. That process was slowed by the fact that the victim in this case was fairly well-known and that he had died in decidedly strange circumstances, and I received more than one letter which demanded to know Holmes' part in it, especially after I mentioned it shortly after ( _The Golden Pince-Nez_ ). There were in fact two reasons why the story was not published. One was that the parents of Lord Framlingham should not have had to endure seeing his great reputation tarnished for a single moment of foolishness that had cost him his life, and the other was a certain preternatural element in the case which I believed my readers would consider to have been fabricated.

This was to be our first venture into the county of Suffolk which, at the boundary changes effected in the previous decade, had been divided into West and East. It was to West Suffolk that we headed, the south-western quarter of the ancient Kingdom of East Anglia (I mention that historical snippet for reasons that will become clear later). The county town was of course Bury St. Edmunds, which Holmes had promised that we would visit during or after the case. I was pleased at that, not just because I liked visiting old cathedrals but because it showed that he actually valued my friendship. 

Our precise destination was the small village of Bury St. Germaine, which lies about three miles east of its more famous neighbour. That meant a long journey on the Great Eastern Railway, first on an express to Ipswich and then a much slower train that chuntered its way across a sparsely-populated county until it reached Flexworth Halt (for Bury St. Germaine). Flexworth was in fact a tiny hamlet smaller even than our destination, but it was customary in those days for railway companies to shun using similar primary names (i.e. two 'Burys') on nearby stations to avoid confusion.

The little wayside halt lay between the hamlet of Flexworth and the village of Bury St. Germaine, about half a mile from each. Our contact in the latter was the local vicar, the Reverend Thomas Stuart. His hobby was archæology and I supposed that he must have been most disturbed by the strange death of his fellow archæologist. The vicar was a short, round-faced and dark-haired man in his early forties and clearly passionate about both his work and his hobby.

“I should start by telling you about the history of the area”, he said once we were sat down in the vicarage. “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that it relates to poor Albert's death.”

'Albert' was in fact Mr. Winston Albert James Addleton, Lord Framlingham in all but name as he was running the estate for his now infirm father. The last of a noble lineage and a noted philanthropist, he had come late to the field of archæology but had been a passionate convert, funding and participating in 'digs' across England. He had been found dead in a locked room at the local inn, with no indication as to the cause. Even the top doctors who had conducted the _post mortem_ had pronounced themselves baffled as to the cause of death.

“St. Jurmin, to give our Church's patron his name as it was in his own seventh century, was the only son of the Christian King Anna of the East Angles”, the vicar began. “Unfortunately he lived at a time when the pagan kingdom of Mercia next door was getting stronger, and he and his father were defeated at Bulcamp on the coast around the year 653. Jurmin most likely died in that battle and was buried at nearby Blythburgh Priory. His father was replaced by his uncle Æthelhere who was just a Mercian puppet, and East Anglia was never strong again. Jurmin was later acknowledged as a saint like all his sisters, one of whom was the famous St. Ætheldreda.”

I nodded. I remember learning about that 'St. Audrey' at school and how decorate braids sold at local fairs were named after her, later (rather unfairly, I had always thought) devolving into the modern word 'tawdry'.

“We do know that Jurmin prayed here before going to his last battle”, the vicar said. “People tend to forget that the English did not become Christian overnight. He found that paganism was still going on, and in particular that the local people worshipped an ancient British barrow. That form of pagan worship was quite unusual for those times, and we do not fully understand why it took hold here and nowhere else in the area. Jurmin intended that his bones rest here but although his father had the church built for him, Blythburgh refused to surrender his bones.”

“Are you saying that you think you have found those bones?” I asked, curiously. He shook his head.

“I do not think so”, he said. “The church was built next to the barrow, and some time in the tenth or eleventh centuries it was extended over it. It was a complete rebuild of the place, the village then still being of some size. The area was then afflicted by events surrounding the Battle of Lincoln in 1217, and it was claimed that the body of the much more famous St. Edmund was then taken away to France, Toulouse to be exact. At around the same time the abbey stopped claiming to have St. Jurmin's remains, although what happened to them we do not know. Of course the abbey was destroyed in 1539 under the Reformation and all records were lost.”

“Pray continue”, Holmes said.

“So to the recent tragedy of poor Albert”, the vicar went on. “Last year we had problems with the roof, which was threatening to give way along one side. The problem turned out to be due to the two beams that were supporting it at that point, both of which were found to be in very poor condition. We had to remove that side of the roof completely then take out and replace the beams, and that was when we found it. There was a second stone floor underneath the main one.”

“A _second_ floor?” I asked. The vicar nodded.

“Yes, I did not see why either”, he said. “The ground underneath the church is solid enough. beams were resting on the lower floor, and set in that was a stone trap-door which led down to the old barrow. The upper floor had been laid right across it. It took three men to break through, and underneath in the barrow was where we found a body.”

“I do not remember that in the newspapers”, I said. The vicar smiled.

“It was at the very least several hundred years old”, he said, “so it was hardly 'news'. Although the clawing marks on the stone above..... a horrible way to die!”

He shuddered before continuing.

“There was also the remains of a New Testament down there that dated from the English Civil War, two hundred and fifty or so years back, which at first seemed to indicate the age of the victim. But then there was the box.”

I think that we were both a little lost by this point.

“We did not see it at first”, the vicar said. “I can only presume that the dead man had tried to cover it up for some reason. It is not my particular field of expertise but Mr. Byers at the town museum said that it was Byzantine, probably eleventh century. I do know that the part of the church over the barrow was rebuilt around the time of the Civil War when they changed the main entrance to the south, so it is possible that they may have discovered the body then and thrown the Bible in before re-sealing it.”

“But why would they not take the expensive box?” Holmes mused. “Most odd.”

The vicar reddened.

“There is more, I am afraid”, he said. “The newspapers did not report the whole story; Albert's father is still influential in government circles despite his infirmity, and I rather think that he may have brought pressure to bear in keeping certain facts concealed, in order to preserve his son's reputation.”

“Why?” I asked. The vicar reddened even more.

“Naturally the House of God has no locks”, he said, “and as the box was expensive it was decided to keep it at the town museum. It looked very expensive I thought, and Albert agreed with Mr. Byers that it was most likely Byzantine work. Except....”

He stopped looking decidedly anxious.

“Go on”, I urged.

“There was a very small mark on the back left-hand corner of the box”, he said. “Hardly visible, but when I noticed it for some reason I thought of a pair of devil's horns. Silly of me, I suppose, but it proved more important than I could have known. I have of course told no-one about this, but the day of Albert's death I was in the town and looked the box over. The mark had vanished!”

“Polished over?” I suggested. Holmes shook his head.

“You believe that Lord Framlingham had a copy made which he substituted so that he could keep the original”, he said heavily.

“I do not just believe”, the vicar said. “I know that for a fact!”

“How?” I asked.

“I visited him to discuss the matter”, he said. “I was the one who found him dead – and he had the box with him! I was able to remove it to the storage shed in the church grounds; that is the only building that has a padlock to it. Do you wish to see it?”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The vicar led us through the lovely old churchyard to a small building with one of the largest padlocks I had ever seen. 

“It is in here”, he said, pushing the door open. “I left it on the table for..... oh.”

He stopped. In the afternoon sunlight through the dirty window there was a small work-table on which there was a lot of dust – except for a rectangular area where, very obviously, something had until recently been standing.

“Who had access to this place?” Holmes asked. The vicar looked troubled.

“Only the verger Mr. Quintus”, he said, looking decidedly anxious. “He has the only other key.”

“We must see him at once”, Holmes said. The vicar looked even more troubled.

“That might be difficult”, he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he is currently in an isolation ward at Bury Hospital, being treated for a rare form of chickenpox”, the vicar said glumly. “He left his key with me, and my dear wife insisted that I put it in the kitchen drawer because she knows how forgetful I am. She is down in London visiting a friend.”

I looked around the shed and noticed something else. The dirty window was backed with a wire mesh which, whilst it could probably easily be cut through, most evidently had not. And the door with the huge padlock had shown no signs of forced entry. So how on earth had the thief gotten into this place?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Since a theft had taken place and it was a matter of some import Holmes decided that we should inform the local constable and then take him to the nearby town and the larger station there, which would also enable us to see the county town. I found the cathedral awe-inspiring but felt saddened when we walked around the ruins of the old abbey. 

“All this destroyed because that ogre Henry the Eighth fancied Anne Boleyn”, I sighed. “At least we got Queen Elizabeth out of it.”

Holmes was looking at a small plaque. I joined him and read it. 

“This was where the bones of St. Edmund were kept”, he said quietly. “I wonder where St. Jurmin's remains were?”

The vicar who had accompanied Constable Bailey to the town station joined us at that moment and heard my question. 

“We are not sure”, he said. “I would still like to know the whereabouts of that box. I looked in on it only just before you both arrived and it was there then, so the thief could not have....”

He trailed off, evidently distracted by something or someone. We both followed his gaze to where a tall, muscular young man was kneeling some distance away, apparently lost in prayer. His blond hair was windblown and the beatific smile on the man's face was, I felt, more than a little unnerving.

“You know him?” I asked.

“That is Jeremy, the village simpleton”, the vicar said, evidently puzzled. “What on earth is he doing here? He never leaves the village!”

The young man stood up, dusted himself down and made to leave, but then caught sight of the vicar. Smiling, he ambled over to us. I was reminded for some reason of one of those huge, over-friendly giant dogs that could probably crush you albeit with the best of intentions. I also noted that the fellow did not have the usual 'not quite present' look about him that such people usually did. Indeed, he looked almost too focussed.

“Jeremy?” the vicar asked, clearly confused. “Why are you here?”

“Just checking in, vicar”, the man said cheerfully. “Saint said I should come.”

“Jeremy was named for our local saint”, the vicar explained. “Um, what were you 'checking in' for, Jeremy?”

“The box, vicar. Saint told me where to hide it, then come here and wait for you.”

I did a quick calculation. The vicar had looked in on the box just before meeting us and we had only talked for a short time. At most a thief would have had half an hour in which to obtain the box from behind a locked door without leaving any evidence of so doing, then to have hidden the thing somewhere and then to have travelled over three miles to get here without seeming the least bit out of breath. It did not even begin to add up.

“And where _did_ you hide it, Jeremy?” the vicar asked gently. The tall man shook his head.

“Saint said not to tell anyone, sir”, Jeremy said. “But he did say I was to tell your two gentleman friends about the pitch.”

He had hidden the thing under a football pitch? I stared at him in confusion, although I noted that Holmes seemed to understand. He nodded.

“You did very well, Jeremy”, he smiled. “Can you tell me, was the box very heavy?”

“Not for me sir”, Jeremy said. “But you would've found it heavy I dare say.”

“And you are feeling all right?” Holmes asked, which I thought another strange question. The man grinned.

“Saint said he'd protect me, sir”, he said. “Saint kept his word.”

“The saint is surely proud of you”, Holmes said. “I do not suppose that he told you anything about the box or its contents? If you cannot tell us, that is quite all right.”

“Saint said they left the big church when the box arrived”, Jeremy said thoughtfully. “Bad man took saint's bones and the box, but saint stopped him at the village. Bad man opened the box; people got sick and died. They buried bad man with the box.” A strange smile came across his features. “Saint's home now, like he wanted.”

“Would you like to ride back with us on the train?” Holmes asked. The man shook his head.

“Saint'll get me home”, he said confidently.

Holmes nodded, and we resumed our tour of the place. I noted that when we left, Jeremy was still leaning against one of the walls, smiling up to Heaven. Weirdly on such a cloudy day, there was a single beam of sunlight that fell on him perfectly.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“We are looking at two crimes here”, Holmes said. “One that happened nearly seven centuries ago, which even my detective powers are strained to solve, and of course poor Lord Framlingham's unwise theft of that box, for which he paid with his life. Vicar, there are two things of which I am absolutely certain.”

“What are those?” the vicar asked as we boarded the train for the short journey back to the village.

“Firstly”, Holmes said, “you must tell this story to no-one; at least, not for as long as Jeremy is alive. I am sure that he will not speak out. And secondly, you must never, on any account, press him for the location of that box. I am sure that he will take the secret of its location to his grave.”

“I do not understand”, the vicar said. Holmes sat back.

“You told us earlier about the Battle of Lincoln”, he said, “in that important year of 1217. Although I am not usually disposed to believe in the preternatural, I think that in this case, what Jeremy told us about those far-off times was true. St. Jurmin's bones were removed from the abbey along with those of his more famous fellow-saint, but more importantly the thief took that box.”

“You will remember that one of the questions I asked Jeremy was about the _weight_ of the box. You described a dark wood often used in Byzantine art but that wood is not particularly heavy, yet the box was. One would normally suspect the contents of the box of causing that, but fortuitously a recent scientific advance leads me to suspect otherwise, and perhaps to prove Jeremy's words all too true.”

“There have now been several studies concerning the strange properties of certain chemicals which seem somehow to change without any external input, and to emit a form of energy when so doing. One such substance is known to be present in small amounts not far from this district. It is called pitchblende.”

That was what Jeremy had meant when he had talked about 'pitch', I thought.

“So where does that leave us?” Holmes said. “Let us assume that, some time before the bones were taken, the monks at the abbey uncovered some of this material. We know that it has the power to make people sick and even die in some instances; presumably as with most things closeness increases the danger. The monks faced a quandary; how to get rid of it without innocent people suffering? I believe that their first attempted solution was to 'call in the reserve', and place the bones of their second-most famous saint in a box with the material? We know that the saint's bones disappeared at around that time. Either at the same time or later, they applied heavy lead lining to an ornate wooden box in their possession and placed the lethal pitchblende inside, presumably still with the bones of your saint. One can only presume that they worked out that something as solid as lead slows the 'leakage'.”

“So the box was deadly?” the vicar asked, horrified. Holmes nodded.

“Only, it seems, to prolonged exposure”, he said. “You said that you took it to the shed and left it there, only looking in on it from time to time, so you were spared. The greedy baron who looted Lincoln Abbey in 1217 was, deservedly, not so fortunate. When he reached your village he must have opened it, in order to cause the sudden increase in deaths. That, I must admit, is one of the things that I do not understand.”

“Why he opened it?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“How he had the key”, he said. “The monks would surely have throw it away, having neither the need nor the desire to ever re-open the box. And you yourself vicar told us that the box had not been forced. Yet somehow the baron was able to open it. As a result the villagers started dying and naturally they linked their misfortune with the newcomer, correctly in this instance. He was overpowered and buried with the box – again, you will note, under a stone floor. The villagers saw the lead lining, and as well as interring him by a holy place they decided to add their own layer of protection. Quite sensibly, in my opinion.”

“And the Bible?” I asked.

“The cellar must have been uncovered during the changes to the church during the Civil War, and possibly more deaths ensued”, Holmes said. “The people of the time immediately re-sealed it, throwing in God's word as an added protection from their own age, and a second stone floor for good measure.”

I could see where this was going. Holmes nodded at me.

“Lord Framlingham achieved much in his chosen field”, he said, “but temptation comes to all men sooner or later and he yielded to that of the box. He had a copy made in London, I presume from photographs of it some of which made the newspapers and switched them. He then took the box to his room at the tavern, intending to remove it to his London house. I remember from the stories that he was found dead in his bed and you, vicar, said you found the box there. He was too close to it for too long, and he paid the price for his misdeed.”

I shuddered at that.

“But when I had the box it was still locked”, the vicar said. “Yet if you are right, it must have been opened at least twice.”

“That is the second curiosity”, Holmes said. “The third, of course, is how your village simpleton got through a locked door and obtained it, and the fourth, as to how he was unaffected by its contents, for he would have to have held it whilst transporting it, close to him as it was so heavy. As I said before, I am not predisposed to believe in the preternatural, but in this instance the evidence seems to support that as the only explanation.”

The train chose that moment to draw to a halt at Flexworth Halt where the vicar had arranged for his carriage to come and meet us. But as we drove back up to the vicarage, I saw something that made my hair stand on end. Jeremy, large as life, cutting the grass in the churchyard and clearly some way into his task, as it had all been longer earlier. How in God's name had he got back here before us let alone have gotten so much done? And once again, in an otherwise cloud-filled sky there was a single ray of light illuminating him.

I looked skywards and gulped.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
